


All the years you were mine

by ionthesparrow



Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Los Angeles Kings, M/M, Philadelphia Flyers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 01:58:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/874390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ionthesparrow/pseuds/ionthesparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Mike,” Dean Lombardi says. “I wanted to be the first to tell you. We’ve traded for Jeff Carter. He’ll be here tomorrow.” Dean grins, wide and genuine. The air in the conference room goes suddenly thin.</p><p>All Mike can think is: oh, shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the years you were mine

**Author's Note:**

> This is not a happy story, nor does it end nicely. This story contains some violence, dubious consent and/or nonconsensual sexual acts, as well as themes of depression and misogyny. Anyone who would like specific, spoiler-filled warnings is welcome to contact me at ionthesparrow12 @ gmail, or @ionthesparrow12 on twitter. 
> 
> Many thanks to [empathapathique](http://archiveofourown.org/users/empathapathique/pseuds/empathapathique), [Kelfin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kelfin/pseuds/kelfin), and [pressdbtwnpages](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pressdbtwnpages/) for all their help.
> 
> One final thing: I think it's important to note that there are healthy and fun ways to incorporate kink into your relationships; this story depicts none of those.

 

* * *

 

_2012_

“Mike,” Dean Lombardi says. “I wanted to be the first to tell you. We’ve traded for Jeff Carter. He’ll be here tomorrow.” Dean grins, wide and genuine. The air in the conference room goes suddenly thin. 

All Mike can think is: oh, shit. 

 

* * *

 

_2001-2003_

They only played Soo City maybe four times a year in the regular season – but it was always a fun trip, far enough away to warrant a hotel stay. And that first year of junior, his cousin played for the Soo, so that was cool. 

Soo City was also where Jeff played. 

Those first couple years, Jeff was just another hockey player. Gangly and thin – you read his stat sheet and thought, _190lbs, yeah right._ Dorky. Quiet. The kind of guy who got nominated for all the good sportsmanship awards because he never got in fights. 

Maybe Mike paid a little extra attention to him, but that was because Jeff was the kid who went #3 to Mike’s #4 in the OHL selection – which meant that _somebody_ at least thought that Jeff Carter was a better hockey player than Mike. 

He was worth paying attention to, though, because while Soo City wasn’t very good – or, at least, they weren’t as good as Mike’steam – Jeff was still the best player on it. He already had a wicked wrister, even his first year in the O, when it still sometimes looked like his skates might go flying out from under him. And he was killer on the dot, those long legs braced to either side, crouched down low. 

Mike used to chirp him mercilessly _._

_Another year on a shit team, eh Cartsy? Hey, maybe the girls’ school down the road will play you guys so you can get a win._

__

_I see you’re still holding onto that V card, Cartsy – how’s that working out for you?_

Jeff would just laugh at him. Which, Mike didn’t start out trying to be funny. But Jeff’s whole face crinkled up when he laughed, eyes lighting up behind his visor, no poker face at all. So Mike would try to think of extra ridiculous ones on the bus ride down. 

_Hey Cartsy – your coach is so dumb, he stared real hard at the OJ because it said ‘concentrate.’_

__

_Hey Cartsy – your goalie’s so slow it takes him all goddamn day to do a power hour._

Pretty much the only time he won the draw was when he could get Jeff to laugh hard enough to fuck up. 

He saw Jeff at camps in the off-season. And at all the international stuff. So by his second year, he knew Jeff followed the Blue Jays and NASCAR, and was a really fucking terrible golfer. He was pretty hopeless with a fishing pole, too, but there at least, it appeared he could be taught. 

He also had a knack for opening his eyes wide and explaining to Coach that _no, that was not their beer tucked into the snow bank next to the hotel door. That would be disrespectful of the importance of the tournament they were playing in._

And they would fucking believe him, which was killer when those baby blues were working for you. And he and Mike would go back to their room, barely keeping it together even sans beer – Jeff pressing his fist to his mouth, eyes squeezed shut and leaking silent tears of laughter. 

Jeff also ate constantly, through all the camps, without ever seeming to be able to gain a pound – he’d poke at his ribs in the mirror and frown and Mike would roll his eyes because hewas still getting called “baby-faced.” Jeff was colorblind, and defaulted to blue anytime he was faced with a choice, because, he said, it made things simpler. Blue shirt. Blue socks. Blue tape. Blue hat. Blue. He liked hotdogs over hamburgers. He liked coffee, but only with a shit ton of sugar in it. He had a weird way of folding towels that he insisted was “better.” He didn’t get along with his dad. He had a dog named Jasper. When he really liked something, he’d call it “sick” like he was some kind of skater bro from Cali. 

Mike was also pretty sure he was into dudes. 

Not because they, like, talkedabout it or something. You didn’t talk about that kind of shit. And it wasn’t like he was into _musical theater_. But there was just something a little forced about it, when they talked about girls, something a little too abstract in the way he sized them up. 

Like Pete, or one of the guys, would say, “Now, I’d take Amanda’s tits and put them with Skylar’slegs. With Sara’s face – except with Allie’s mouth.” 

“Fuck yes,” somebody else said. “But we already agreed she can’t talk, right? Because if she can talk, then no fucking way to Allie’s mouth.” 

Mike laughed. Everybody was laughing. “Whose ass?” 

“Oh, good question.” Pete rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t know – Carts, who do you think has the nicest ass?” 

Jeff blushed a little. “Uh. Lauren?” And the way he said it, it was like he was guessing. 

Pete mulled this, one hand scrubbing through his dark hair. “Respectable, respectable. But Skylar, though, fuck _._ I just want to _grab,_ you know?” He held his hands up in demonstration. 

Mike had looked over and caught Jeff’s eye and shrugged. Because, yeah. There was a reasonMike was going to pick up on it, if Jeff wasn’t into girls. And right then, there had been something a little uncertain in Jeff’s expression, eyes still on Mike’s like they were the only people in the room. And then he smiled – just a hesitant twist of his lips. 

Mike smiled back. 

 

 

During the international stuff, they always brought in motivational speakers. Charismatic figures whose wisdom was supposed to guide their moral development in the same way the coaches were trying to harness the energy of their growing limbs. All of it for the same purpose, the only purpose: to turn weedy, adolescent frames and unfocused minds into an engine driven to play hockey. Always hockey. And every day, better hockey than the day before. 

They were mostly retired players, these speakers, their massive, door-filling frames folded slightly with age. Men in sport coats and jeans, guts proudly protruding over their belts. They talked about teamwork and honor. Leadership and charity. It was almost too much some days, and Mike watched as the latest clicked through his Power Point deck – the Power Point deck seeming to be an invariant and necessary prop for communicating to young hockey players – and tried to stifle the anxious buzz of thinking about all the ways he needed to be better. 

In the next photo, The Retired Player was standing with his blonde wife, surrounded by his three blonde children, all of them starched and smiling on a manicured lawn. Mike had not rolled his eyes, had not looked away, although it was a close thing. All of these presentations had this slide. The title was inevitably something about balancing the demands of work and home life, or the importance of family support, but the _point_ was the hot, blonde wife. The giant house in the background. The implied message: _all this can be yours. Work hard. Don’t fuck up._

Mike swallowed, abruptly restless and uncomfortable. Next to him Jeff had shuffled in his seat, slouched down into it until his cheek was pressed against Mike’s shoulder, the warmth seeping into his arm. Jeff tilted his head back so he could see Mike. “Look good?” 

Mike glanced down. Up close, he could see Jeff’s pale eyelashes, the deliberate stubble across his cheeks that was probably the effort of a week’s worth of not shaving, the sly twist to his grin. Mike shrugged. 

In the next slide, the Retired Player was shown standing amidst his other trophies: cups and plaques. Framed jerseys and medals. Jeff elbowed him. “That’s going to be you,” he whispered, eyes wide looking up at Mike. 

Frowning, he jostled Jeff with his elbow until Jeff rolled his eyes and straightened up. Up on the screen, a version of the Retired Player twenty years younger was grinning ear-to-ear. Mike’s attention caught on the left of his chest, and the gleaming, white, embroidered C. 

“It is,” Jeff said again softly. 

 

 

During international prep, they used to smoke out behind the rink – cackling madly, blowing long, blue streams up at the sky, the bowl an incandescent spot of red in darkness. When the boys were with them, there would be snowball fights and wrestling, bouts punctuated with shrieking laughter oddly muffled by the snow, sound echoing around the vacant parking lot, as if coming from much further away. Their fingers and faces slowly going numb, and the night open and limitless before them. 

But when it was just the two of them passing the pipe back and forth, it was much quieter. The parking lot was nearly empty, just two cars huddled under a lamp post, undisturbed underneath inches of snow. Mike finished packing the bowl and passed it over. “Do you want to call Woolsey? Or Pete?” 

“No.” Jeff was sprawled on his back, head almost in Mike’s lap. He patted down his pockets, searching for his lighter. “Woolsey’s family is in town, anyway. He can’t come out.” 

That was a lie. Woolsey’s family left yesterday. Mike didn’t call him on it. 

“And Pete is – loud. I like it when it’s just – ” Jeff looked away. 

Even with his face angled away, Mike could see the edge of his awkward expression, Jeff’s cheek, flushing red. They spent the next several minutes passing the pipe back and forth in silence. 

And maybe the weed and pilfered beer made Mike more honest than he usually was, too. He thought about The Retired Player and his trophies, thought about whether at seventeen, The Retired Player had wondered if he was going to make it. Or if he’d just known he was going to be great. 

Mike looked down at Jeff. “You really think I could pull it off?” 

Jeff tipped his head back. His eyes were red, a little unfocused. “What? Crack the big show? Win the Cup?” 

Mike shrugged in a way he hoped encompassed, _yeah. All of that._

__

Jeff snorted and rolled upright, slung an arm around him, tugged Mike against him. “You’re the best guy on the team. If you were a year older, you’d be captain.” 

Mike hunched his shoulders at that, but he leaned into Jeff. “You’re really good too, you know.” They stayed like that, just a second too long, and Mike felt it when they both went stiff and awkward. 

“Not like – ” Jeff coughed, taking his arm back. “Anyway. Of course you will.” 

Mike forced out a laugh. But he still wasn’t sure Jeff was right. And even then, he still wasn’t sure what he wanted the answer to be. 

 

 

They got away with it until they didn’t. And, standing in Coach’s office, it was Mike’s father Coach made him call. Mike’s father, who had his name spelled out in granite on the list of donors to the Kenora Country Club. Spelled out in ink as a member of the Town Council and whose name was mirrored countless other places around Kenora. 

Coach made him call right there, in the office, and had Mike explain exactly why he was on s _ocial probation._ Which in all honesty, had sounded less like a punishment, and more like the name of some lame, ‘80s punk band. 

“Michael,” his father said, voice firm with disappointment. “This is totally unacceptable.” 

“Yes, sir.” Mike winced. “I’m sorry. It was stupid.” He studied the carpet so he didn’t have to look at his coach, who was watching with calm, watery disappointment. 

“Michael, you’re not just endangering your future success – what you’re doing, the success you’ve had in hockey means a lot to this community. You’re disappointing them.” 

“I _know – ”_ Except his father was a fucking hypocrite. Mike had been wasted plenty of times at home, and his dad would wink knowingly. Reminisce obliquely about his own wayward, youthful ways. Mike getting caught _–_ that was the problem. 

“If you knew, you wouldn’t have done it. You have enormous potential, Michael. Remember that.” 

Enormous potential. There was already a Richards Ave and a Richards Park in Kenora. Mike was supposed to add to it. 

In his head, he flashed to the Power Point slides, clicking one over the next. NHL player. All-star. Cup. Medals. Manicured lawn. Neat hedges. Tiny blonde wife. Smiling blonde children. Signposts marking a narrowing chute. 

_Do not fuck this up,_ his father didn’t say. Mike bit his lip, answered anyway, “Yes, sir.” 

 

* * *

 

_2012_

Jeff arrives in LA on a Wednesday. Mike picks him up because Jeff is, at least nominally, still Mike’s best friend. 

Jeff smiles at him in the airport – and even with one hand in his pocket, squeezing his keys so tight it hurts, even with that cold pit twisting in his stomach – Mike still grins back. No thought involved, pure reflex. He swallows. “Welcome to LA.” 

Jeff’s eyebrows do that absurd little thing they do when he’s excited. “Thanks.” 

Jeff sighs in Mike’s car, pushes the seat back all the way to stretch out. Bitches about the flight. About the leg room. The food. The screaming kids. A long, meandering diatribe with no real heat behind it, but steady, like he needs to fill the quiet. Mike takes him home. Jeff pats the dog and lets Mike show him around and accepts the spare key. And then he puts his hand on Mike’s hip. 

Mike breaks off in the middle of explaining where he keeps the towels, brain stuttering to a stop, and looks down. Jeff has two fingers hooked in the waistband of Mike’s pants, rubbing tiny circles into Mike’s skin. 

“Jeff,” Mike says quietly. “I don’t think we should.” He can’t actually make himself look at Jeff, and he really, _really_ doesn’t want to have this fight. Not here. Not now, but. “I don’t want it to be like what happened in Philly.” 

He waits, fucking on edge, for what’s coming. 

But Jeff just takes his hand back. And when Mike looks up at him, Jeff smiles. “Sure, Mike. Whatever you want.” He gives Mike’s hip one last pat, then turns to leave. “What time do we have to be at the rink tomorrow, anyway?” 

 

 

That night, Mike dreams. He’s just on the edge of getting off in his dream, close but not quite there. Heat and pressure. A deep, heady ache. 

He wakes to Jeff’s mouth on his dick. Fingers slippery and already working down between his legs. Mike’s throat is dry. His lips chapped. “Jeff – ” And it’s hard to tell if he’s even really awake. Mike’s trying to blink away the sleep – but there’s the burn of Jeff’s stubble on the inside of his thigh, the stretch as Jeff starts to press two fingers inside him. He’s definitely awake. “What the fuck – ” 

Mike tries to pull away, but he’s caught. Can’t press forward without pushing into Jeff’s mouth. Can’t move back without working himself further onto Jeff’s fingers. He rubs a hand across his face, trying to focus, and then shoves at Jeff’s shoulders. 

Jeff grumbles around his dick and ignores him. 

_“Jeff.”_ Mike twists harder, and Jeff takes the hand he has wrapped around the base of Mike’s dick and uses it to press Mike’s hip into the mattress, mouth sliding further down, all slick heat, all but choking himself. The fingers of Jeff’s other hand work faster, sliding in and out of him. 

Mike’s orgasm catches him by surprise; he’s left gasping up at the ceiling, fingers curling uselessly near Jeff’s shoulder. Jeff presses his face into the skin of Mike’s thigh. Mike can feel him smile. And he can hear himself, his own rough panting. He stares down at the top of Jeff’s head. Flicks his ear. 

Jeff looks up, annoyed. 

“Asshole,” Mike says. “I said _no_.” 

Jeff climbs up his body, suspended over him. He grins, tries to kiss Mike, and when Mike turns his face away, settles for kissing his jaw, working his way around to Mike’s neck. “You always say no.” 

“I meant it.” 

“Then why – ” Jeff’s teeth scrape against his earlobe “ – did you go to bed naked? Why’d you leave the lube out on the nightstand?” 

_Did he?_ “I – ” 

Jeff rolls his hips against him. “Come on. You gonna leave me hanging?” He brings his mouth down to worry at the skin over Mike’s collarbone, just enough teeth involved for it to hurt a little. To sting. Then he goes lower, catching Mike’s nipple, and Mike jumps – everything’s still so sensitive. And the whole time, Jeff’s hips are rocking against him, dick hard and slippery, rubbing up against Mike’s thigh. 

If he were perfectly passive, perfectly still, he wonders if Jeff would just rub off against his leg. Probably. 

Mike sighs. “What do you want?” 

Jeff gentles. The teeth disappear and he’s just pressing soft kisses to Mike’s chest. “Let me fuck you,” he says in the pause between one press of his mouth and the next. And he’s already easing Mike’s legs apart again, already working his fingers back into him. 

There is a certain amount of comfort in Jeff’s hands. And just because they fuck once, doesn’t mean they’ll go back to fucking all the time. It sounds thin, even in his own head, but – “Just go easy, okay?” Mike settles back further against the pillows. “It’s been awhile.” 

Jeff makes a pleased, humming sound at that. 

And when he’s fucking Mike, “I missed you.” It’s mumbled, moaned against his skin. “You’re so perfect, Mike. You’re so fucking perfect. I missed you.” 

_Fuck,_ Mike thinks. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

 

* * *

 

_2005-2006_

They made the Flyers out of camp. And Mike was like, ‘we should get a place together.’ And Jeff was like, ‘okay.’ And so they had. 

The apartment was _so shitty_. 

It had the ugliest fucking carpet, and they never managed to get anything up on the walls. And neither of them knew what they were doing, so the backsplash in the kitchen was stained permanently orange from exploded tomato sauce. 

The linoleum was always sticky in a way even the weekly maid service couldn’t do anything about, and it took them six months to get anything more than bean bag chairs to put in front of the entertainment center in the living room. 

But Mike still remembers midnight runs to go buy prefab cookie dough and suffering the indignity of driving around Philadelphia until they found a liquor store that wouldn’t card them. Jeff leaving messages written in soap on Mike’s bathroom mirror, and way, waytoo many hours in front of Call of Duty or Mario Kart. 

Obviously, that apartment was where it all started. 

It’s hard to remember now, who started it. Who was the first to look. Who was the first to look away. Who was the first to notice that as the months rolled on the apartment was filling up with this sweet, terrible tension. This buzz, like gas from a leaking pipe, or kids hot-boxing a car. 

Mike was so horny – that whole year. They were so busy, so awkward _,_ that even when girls were throwing themselves at them, it seemed messy. Complicated. Mike was fucking kicking ass at hockey, and he would come home _wired_ – bouncing, the adrenaline still live and electric under his skin. Talking a mile a minute. 

Until finally, _finally,_ Jeff had grabbed him, pushed him against the wall, just to hold him still, rolling his eyes the whole time. But just Jeff’s hands on his arms – the contact was like burning; Mike could feel each individual fingerprint on his skin, and heat was pooling in his groin, and he was so fucking hard. Which wouldn’t have been sobad, except that Jeff had leaned into him. Maybe on purpose. Or maybe he just lost his balance. But his hips had come up against Mike’s, and Mike pressed up into them before he could stop himself. 

Jeff’s eyes were huge, but then he’d leaned further into Mike. And Mike thought, _thank god._ It was hard to keep his eyes open, hard to swallow back all the noises he wanted to make, hard to keep his hands from grabbing. Jeff brought his hand down, rubbing the heel of his palm over the front of Mike’s pants, and Mike had made a noise then, for sure. 

Jeff’s face was so close, his nose brushing up against Mike’s ear. Mike could feel the scrape of Jeff’s stubble against his cheek. And they’d almost backed into it – Jeff’s lips against his jaw first, not even a kiss really, just contact. Mike could feel his tongue, his _teeth_. And then Jeff was at the corner of his mouth, panting hard – 

Or maybe it was Mike that was panting. 

Jeff had jerked him off, right there, up against the wall, twisting a hand in Mike’s shirt to hold him in place when his knees threatened to give out. Mike with his hands latched onto Jeff’s jacket, hauling him back in every time he moved his mouth away from Mike’s. 

Mike buried his face in Jeff’s neck when he came. “Oh Jesus, Mike,” Jeff said after. “Fuck.” 

Mike remembers looking back at him, not yet able to unclench his hands, and thinking Jeff looked just as glassy-eyed, was breathing just as hard as if it was him that got off. A sense of startled wonder on his face. 

That first year – that first year they fucked in basically every way they could think of, on every available surface in that apartment. 

 

* * *

 

_2012_

Jeff brushes past him in the morning, hands grazing Mike’s hips as Mike stands in the kitchen drinking coffee. A gentle touch to the nape of Mike’s neck. The first time, Mike lets it go. 

The second, he stiffens, pulls away from Jeff’s touch. “We shouldn’t.” 

Jeff has a piece of toast in his hand. He pauses chewing, looking at Mike with wide blue eyes. 

Mike clears his throat. “Fuck. I don’t think we should be fucking. It messed everything up in Philadelphia.” 

Jeff’s eyebrows go up. He chews for a minute before swallowing his toast. “You play better when we’re fucking.” 

Mike frowns. 

“We weren’t fucking when we missed playoffs,” Jeff clarifies, gesturing with his coffee mug. “And we were fucking when we made the finals.” 

Mike scowls harder at that memory. Fuck 2010. Fuck Chicago _._ He shakes his head. “That’s not the point – ” 

Jeff sets his mug down and walks over, ignoring Mike’s glare. He holds Mike’s face in his hands. “Then what’s the point, Mikey?” 

“The _point_ is everything got fucked in Philly. I messed everything up. I don’t want – ” 

“ _Hey.”_ Jeff’s voice is sharp. “Was it your fault Bob couldn’t keep pucks out of the net?” 

“No, but – ” 

“Was it your fault Pronger got hurt?” 

Mike stays silent until Jeff gives him a little shake. “No.” 

“You didn’t mess everything up.” He’s still holding Mike’s face. Nowhere for Mike to look but back at Jeff, whose face is an intense, focused sort of calm. Jeff presses a kiss to Mike’s forehead. “And you’re happier when we’re fucking. I just want you to be happy.” 

When he puts his arm around Mike, Mike lets him leave it there. 

 

 

The next two months are a blur, a rush. Jeff starts scoring: wrister, slap shot. Backhand. Wrister. Wrister. Wrister, again. And just like that, at twelve games in, he’s already pushing the halfway point of what he produced the whole time he was in Columbus. 

Mike is racking up assists. 

Everything else is like ink smudged and bleeding off the page. Something left out in the rain. White noise. Mike wakes up every morning to Jeff wrapped around him. His arm tight around Mike’s waist; his breath warm near Mike’s ear. The days break down and crumble, becoming just games and the hours before games and the hours after games and the nights bring more plane flights and more hotel rooms, and Jeff’s mouth, conducting its careful, nightly inventory of Mike’s bruises. 

In the midst of the chaos, Mike keeps a clock in his head: they need eight more wins. Then seven. Then six. Each one is a tick mark, proof of their progress. Proof that when he starts waking up in the still part of the night – heart racing and mouth dry – that it’s for something, that he’s closer to being done. 

The darkness feels heavy and solid pressing in on him. Next to him, Jeff mumbles in his sleep and reaches out, fingers catching at the collar of Mike’s t-shirt. 

Mike blinks up at the ceiling, counts the games he has left again. 

When they finally win the last one, it’s like letting out a breath they’ve all been holding for months. Mike hardly remembers the game. The whole season is distant, weightless as the Cup in his hands. He doesn’t remember feeling tired. He just remembers the way the noise was so loud it was like a constant pressure, so opaque and unwavering it was almost silence. 

 

 

Mike wakes up in the sun, sweaty where Jeff’s arm is thrown across him. Air conditioning losing the battle to the June heat. A dull ribbon of a headache at his temples. 

No hockey today. No hockey tomorrow. Nothing pressing, nothing looming. 

No demands on him. No weight. Mike smiles. 

Jeff is still asleep when Mike slips out the room. Still passed out while Mike makes coffee, humming under his breath. Checks his email. Checks the news, a grin flickering around his mouth. Mike glances back towards the bedroom, but there’s still no sign of movement. 

His hand hesitates over the mouse, just for a second. And then Mike buys his plane ticket. 

“Back to Kenora?” Jeff asks, when he does finally emerge, still disheveled and sleep-mussed. And now frowning. “Why?” 

Mike shrugs, running the rehearsed words through his head. He needs to get this right, not just the content but the tone. “I want to get my shoulder looked at, and I like the guy I have up there.” He sounds casual – he’s pretty sure of it. “See the family. Go fishing.” 

Jeff searches his face for a long moment, and then he reaches out and takes Mike’s hand, thumb stroking over the back of Mike’s wrist. “But – ” He swallows, and when he looks at Mike there’s enough melancholy there for a lump to form in Mike’s throat. “But you’re coming back here after, right? You’ll do your summer training here?” 

“Sure,” Mike lies, and squeezes Jeff’s hand. 

 

* * *

 

_2006-2007_

They were good their sophomore season. They agreed, very seriously, that all that shit they did last year was junior shit. Rookie shit. Probably everybody did it. No need to worry about it, but they probably shouldn’t do it anymore, either. So they moved out. Got their own places. Fucked girls. On the road, they stayed in their own beds, chaste and responsible, even if in the dark Mike’s ears still strained for some sound, some proof that Jeff was next to him. 

That year they racked up losses. Each loss was supposed to be the last one, to be the springboard of their turnaround. Before every game, Mike told himself: this time he was going to get his shit together; this time he was going to be ready. He was a liar, even if he hadn’t known it. A fraud, even if he hadn’t meant to be. 

 

 

_Koivu carried the puck over the blue line. Mike was back and pinching, but his eyes were on the puck, on Koivu’s stick as it crossed the line. He was high – too high – and when Koivu deked around him, there wasn’t anyone else there._

That was the go-ahead goal for Montreal. That made it eight losses in a row. 

Mike opened his eyes. The hotel room ceiling seemed unmoved by his failure. Mike rubbed a hand across his face. He looked up when Jeff let himself into the room. 

Jeff took one look at him and sighed. “You still thinking about Koivu’s goal?” 

Mike glared. 

“Let it go.” Jeff held out a beer. “You want one?” 

“No.” Mike scowled, heels of his hands still pressed to his forehead. The room felt like a pressure cooker. The heater’s drone was too loud. The air too thick to breathe. He closed his eyes again. His head was pounding. 

_Koivu carried the puck over the blue line –_

“Mike.” Jeff sat down on the edge of the bed, and when Mike opened his eyes Jeff was staring down at him. “You fucked up, okay? We all fucked up. We all played shitty. You have to let it go.” Jeff was right next to him, skin and muscle and perfectly familiar flesh, right within arm’s reach. 

Mike shouldn’t. He really, really shouldn’t. 

Jeff reached out, placed one careful hand on Mike’s arm. Mike let him. Let him pull Mike’s hands away from his face. Didn’t move away when Jeff – slowly, deliberately – stretched out next to him. 

When Jeff kissed him, Mike let his mouth fall open under the touch. 

 

 

They fell back in so easy. On the road, they laid next to each other, sharing one bed, heads just inches apart so they could whisper back and forth without worrying the sound would carry. 

“I don’t want to be traded,” Jeff said, his voice barely audible, even when he was close enough that Mike could feel the warmth of his breath against his ear. 

Mike turned his head to look at him, but with the blackout curtains pulled, he could just make out the barest outline of Jeff’s features. “You’re not going to be traded.” 

Jeff shuffled restlessly. “Ziggy said they’re thinking about trading Forsberg.” 

“They’re not going to trade the captain,” Mike hissed back. 

Jeff scoffed. “Maybe they should. The way things are going.” 

Mike elbowed him. “Hey.” 

“When you’re captain – ” 

Mike tried to cut him off with another elbow, but Jeff caught his arm. Held it. “No, seriously. Mike, when you’re captain, you’re going to be so much better than he is.” It was still just a whisper, but there was something urgent in Jeff’s tone. Something serious. 

Mike squeezed his eyes shut, throat tight with a heavy sense of dread. When Mike had looked at him again, and he could just pick out the gleam of Jeff’s eyes, steady and unblinking in the dark. 

He looked so certain. Mike kissed him. 

They whispered other things, too. They whispered all their secrets. Back and forth, tucked under anonymous comforters in dozens of scattered, North American cities. Mike never knew where they were. The rooms were always the same, totally interchangeable in the pitch black. The beds were always the same – one staying untouched, undisturbed, and Jeff next to him, a long stretch of heat, and hushed confessions in his ear. 

“I feel like I’m supposed to want to be captain. Holmgren talked to me about it,” Mike had admitted one night. “But – I don’t know.” 

Another night it was Jeff’s voice, choked and stained, and just barely audible. “I think my dad kind of hates it that I’m better at hockey than he was.” He shrugged and Mike felt it from where his head was resting on Jeff’ chest. “He’s an asshole.” 

Or once, when they were already naked, and the room smelled like sweat and sex, Jeff had hidden his face in the skin of Mike’s throat. “I let one of my coaches in Junior fuck me,” he whispered. “Just to see what it was like.” 

Mike swallowed. “At a party once, I saw one of the guys on my team fuck this girl. She was totally passed out. I never said anything.” His breath came out in a quick, stuttering gasp after that. A heady little thread of panic curling under his skin. 

But Jeff just held him tighter. 

“And I – ” Jeff was back to hiding his face, like even in the dark he didn’t want Mike to look at him. “Sometimes… when I’m getting myself off. I think about hurting people.” 

Mike frowned. He couldn’t see Jeff’s face, but he could feel the quick, shallow breaths he was taking. “What do you mean?” 

“Like, holding someone down. Pushing them around a little. Roughing them up.” He twisted awkwardly next to Mike. “Is that fucked up? Do you think that makes me a bad person?” 

Mike’s mouth had gone dry at that point, his heart pounding so hard he was getting an odd, fluttery sensation in his head. He swallowed. “You could do that to me. If you wanted.” 

 

* * *

 

_2012-2013_

The texts start coming in July. First plaintive and cajoling. Then irritated. Then angry. 

Mike always scans them quickly, eyes darting around the room first. He always deletes them. He never responds. 

 

 

In August, Mike sits on a table in his doctor’s exam room, still shirtless, skin prickling in the AC’s blast. The walls are muted beige, littered with photos of athletes – mid-stride, or mid-leap, suspended in the air – presumably all having overcome some horrific injury thanks to Dr. Averill’s care. Mike rubs absently at his shoulder. In his pocket, his phone buzzes. 

A message. From Jeff, and that doesn’t quite stab anymore, just sits heavy and sour in his gut. The last one was two days ago – 

_fuck you. why are you ignoring me?_

__

– and Mike expects more of the same, but there are no words to this message. Just a video clip. Mike looks around, the doctor’s office is all bland walls, dusty silk plants and stacks of outdated SIs. The door the doctor disappeared behind remains firmly closed. 

He hits play. 

The image is unsteady, the camera fighting to focus, but it gradually becomes clear that he’s looking down at the top of someone’s head. That the camera is unsteady, the angle odd because it’s a video Jeff’s taken of someone blowing him. On Mike’s couch. 

“All right, Mike,” Dr. Averill says, pushing open the door. “Let’s talk about your options.” 

Mike startles, a guilty flush creeping up his neck, and shoves the phone away. And he’s probably a full beat too late when he finally says, “Yeah. Sure.” 

But the doctor doesn’t notice, attention still focused on the folder he’s holding. “The bad news is surgery is your only real option if you want to significantly improve your range of motion, and the recovery time isn’t negligible. But the good news is it’s a standard procedure. Very low risk of complication. Mike?” 

Mike blinks. The words have been running in front of and past him, a background tickertape, never penetrating. He can feel his cheeks growing warm. 

“Mike, I need to know what you want to do.” 

“I – ” Mike hesitates. “I need to think about it.” 

Dr. Averill is frowning at him, but then he smiles absently. Pats Mike’s knee. “Sure. Just let my office know what you decide.” 

 

 

Jeff sends more videos – short, little 15-second windows into what he’s up to in LA. Which mainly appears to be fucking strangers. Men. Women. Across the sheets of Mike’s bed, blankets and pillows scattered across the room. Against the island in the kitchen. Draped over the back of Mike’s couch. They come at odd times, his phone buzzing in the shallow, still-dark hours of the morning. Interrupting his afternoon. In the middle of the night. And with each play, Mike’s jaw will grow tighter. Until, by the fourth or fifth time through, it aches enough to remind him to stop. 

By then, his whole head will ache, little flashes of light going off behind his eyes, and his dick will be hard, and his chest tight. 

“Michael?” 

It’s his father. He must have knocked. He must have made noise walking across the deck, but Mike missed it. Mike presses a hand to his temple, blinks hard. 

His father nods at the phone in his hand. “Is everything alright?” 

Mike tucks the phone away quickly, shifts his weight. “Lockout news. It’s happening.” 

“I see.” He’s holding a bottle of scotch in his hand, and that is the only thing that saves this moment from being an unmitigated disaster. 

They sit on the deck, looking out over water that’s streaked with gold, and at the shadows growing longer and sharply outlined. Mike turns the glass in his hand just to hear the ice clink, rubs his fingers through the condensate. 

His father clears his throat. “I’m very proud – of what you’ve accomplished this year.” 

Mike freezes, breath caught in his throat. His father is looking at the water, lines on his face softened in the failing light. 

“You’ve done very well.” He looks over at Mike then, smiling, but the expression is uncertain, hesitant. 

Mike swallows. “Stanley Cup.” 

“Stanley Cup,” his father agrees, looking down, studying the glass in his hand. “Mike, are you – ” He pauses. “Are you alright? You seem – unhappy.” His father’s voice is very quiet. He pauses again, clears his throat. “Your mother worries about you.” 

The water’s mostly dark now. The trees just black outlines against a charcoal sky. Mike can pick out crickets, and the sound of birds calling out, settling in for the night. In an hour, there’ll be so many stars visible it will be hard to imagine Los Angeles is under the same sky. It’s beautiful in a way that cuts him up inside, sharp and cold up under his ribs. All the hollow spaces in him thrown into sharp relief. 

It’s nothing but unending days of sun here – gold and vibrant. And his family. And this house – all decked out in blues and grays. All marble and wood. And that perfect fucking lawn, manicured and green, and sloping down to the water’s edge. And Mike like a dark spot. Like crabgrass. Like a tear in a painting. Like a stain. 

Mike does not want to be here. 

Mike’s glass is almost empty, and he knocks back the dregs. “Of course.” He makes himself smile at his father. “Just – tired, you know? Long season.” He stands up, pitches the ice out over the railing. “In fact I should probably get to bed. I’m fucking beat.” 

His father holds his gaze for a moment before nodding. “Sure,” he says. “Of course.” 

 

 

He doesn’t bother turning the lights in his room on, just undresses and crawls into bed. The ceiling is a blank expanse staring back at him, an edginess crackling under his skin. 

From the floor, he hears his phone buzz. He blinks up at the ceiling once more – and then he’s sitting up, leaning down to feel for the pants he left discarded on the floor. His hand closes on his phone, cold in his hand. He pulls up his messages with a growing sense of urgency, and when it is from Jeff he’s hit with a tremendous pulse of relief. When he catches sight of himself in his bedroom mirror, he’s smiling. 

The expression freezes in place. Mike looks away. 

He props himself up in bed to play it. The screen is dark – the images blurred and shifting, impossible to make out, but he can hear Jeff’s voice biting out breathy, little moans. Jeff’s groaning, his breathing turning into harsh, uneven panting and loud, like his mouth was near the microphone. Mike plays it again, setting the phone on the bed next to him this time, running his palm over his dick. He closes his eyes. He’s hard and impatient, and when the video ends, he keeps one hand in motion, stroking over himself, the other fumbling against the screen to hit play again. 

In the dark, it’s almost enough to be able to pretend – to imagine that Jeff’s hands are on him, the way his wrist would twist, the way his grip would just edge up against too rough, too tight. He would pin Mike down against the mattress, and he would slow down just when Mike was close – until Mike was groaning out promises, begging. Jeff’s mouth would hover over his, breathing in all those mumbled words, or he would tip Mike’s head back, run his tongue along Mike’s throat – 

Mike comes with a rough grunt, hips snapping up off the bed, and he’s left listening to the last few seconds of Jeff moaning next to his head. 

The knot in his chest unravels, just a little, just enough to sleep. 

 

 

The sun hits his room early, lighting up the view. Lighting up the gold-plated treasures on the wall. The blankets are tangled around his legs. The sheets are stained, looking particularly sordid in bright light of day. 

His phone is still on his nightstand where he left it. 

Mike curls in bed, pressing a hand to his mouth, and there’s no air in the room, there’s nothing – 

A thousand beautiful things outside, and Mike is here, desperate for the dregs of some sick affection. He gasps a little, around his palm. 

For the first time that summer, he texts Jeff back. 

_we are fucking done._

 

 

During the lockout, Mike has his shoulder operated on. He fishes, seeking out spaces where the only sound is the dull lapping of the water. He watches the leaves turn, and for once he’s home for hunting season, and the woods echo with the sudden, cavernous clap of gunshots. 

He swims laps, listening to the pull and burn of his shoulder. His face in the water, where there is no sound at all, and only the rippling patterns of light to see. Smiles and nods at the words his parents spout when they’re in town, at the vague, conciliatory things his brothers say about the lockout, hard for whatever reason to focus on. 

When it gets cold, he sits on the dock, insulated by the mild buzz of painkillers and Jack Daniels, and looks out over the lake, gray and flat, and starting to ice over. 

He doesn’t hear from Jeff. 

 

 

Mike arrives back in LA pale from being away from the California sun, with a fistful of prescriptions and a list of exercises for his shoulder. 

The locker room is full of hugs and handshakes, and a barely repressed, manic energy. Mike rolls his shoulder under Brownie’s watchful gaze. “It’s fine,” he tells him. “It’s like, 85%.” Brownie shrugs. 

Across the room, Jeff nods a stiff greeting to him. Every line of him uncertain, and for a second Mike is hit with a wave of regret and guilt. He sees the kid he met at sixteen. Gangly and shy in a room full of loudmouths, and holding himself apart – like all the commotion is taking place beyond a crevasse he’s not sure how to cross. 

He shows up at Mike’s door that evening, weight shifting back and forth awkwardly, eyes on the ground. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry.” He glances quickly up at Mike’s face. “I know I did some shitty things this summer.” 

Mike watches him. He can see Jeff’s Adam’s apple bob when he swallows. 

“Anyway, I um – ” Jeff digs in his pocket “ – I wanted to give this back.” He’s holding out Mike’s house key. “I moved all my stuff out. I got a place.” He waves vaguely. “Not that far away, actually – ” 

“Sure.” Mike takes the key. 

Jeff cuts off, hesitating for a moment. “Right. Anyway. If you need anything, I’m just – there.” 

“Sure.” Mike says again. He doesn’t offer anything more. 

Jeff nods without looking up. “Okay. Okay, I’ll just – go.” 

 

 

For almost a month, Jeff is quietly polite. He keeps his eyes off Mike in the dressing room. He sends him sharp, crisp passes on the ice and maintains his distance everywhere else. He doesn’t call, and he doesn’t text, and when they’re not at the rink, Mike doesn’t see him at all. 

Mike makes a point of going out – saying yes to nights out with the boys. Yes to a beer after the game; yes to more than one on their days off. And if it’s a brittle sort of good cheer, well, he’s certainly not going to be the first person to show up to a bar with a reason to drink. It’s better than drinking alone, anyway. So Mike plasters a shit-eating grin on his face, says _yes_ with the most obnoxious level of enthusiasm he can muster. 

When he does, Jeff gets these two spots of color – high in his cheeks. But he won’t look at Mike. 

They get Bernie his first shutout in a game against St. Louis. “Yes.” Doughty holds his fist up, triumphant. “I fucking told you. Who’s drinking with me?” 

Doughty has been predicting shutouts for _all_ of Bernie’s starts, but that hardly matters. “Fuck yeah, I’m in,” Mike says. Loud. 

“I knew I could count on you.” Doughty points at Mike with his empty water bottle, smiles, then his eyes drift around the room. “Who else? Carts, you up?” 

Jeff doesn’t look up from his locker. “I don’t know – ” 

“Oh come on, you used to be fun.” Doughty slaps the water bottle against his palm. “What’s up with you lately?” 

Mike shivers, shoulders going tense. Jeff’s gaze is still averted, hands tight on his gear. Mouth curved in an uncertain frown, like how he looked at that first international camp where he didn’t know anyone. Like how he probably looked in Columbus. Jeff glances up, and for just a second, his eyes lock on Mike’s. 

Dustin Brown stands up. “Fuck it, let’s all go. First round’s on me.” 

 

 

In the bar, Jeff hangs back at the edges of the crowd, nursing a beer and waving off the proffered shots. He looks a little a little hollow around the eyes, a little bit like he’s counting the hours until he’ll be allowed to leave. Jeff looks – 

Mike tears his eyes away. Mike is not supposed to care how Jeff looks. He refocuses on Stoll, sitting next to him. Stoll is holding out another shot glass. “Sure,” Mike agrees. “Why not.” He’s already done a _welcome-back-to-the-NHL_ shot with Brownie and a _congrats-on-the-contract_ shot with Quick. Another for each time he catches himself looking for Jeff. 

He’s far enough gone that it doesn’t burn going down. Jeff’s at the other end of the bar, and from here Mike can see the line of his throat, the curve of his shoulders, the taper of his waist – all places Mike’s hands have been. His mouth goes dry, and the glass slips in his hand. Stoll grins at him. “I think,” Mike says carefully, “that I have probably had enough.” 

Stoll grins wider. “You want us to call you a cab?” 

“Naw.” Mike looks down towards the end of the bar again, a twist of heat building in his core, clouding the edges of his thoughts. He raises his voice. “Carts’ll give me a ride home. Right, Carts?” 

Jeff glances over startled. He blinks. “Sure. Of course.” 

In his driveway, Mike presses his keys into Jeff’s palm. “Come in.” 

In the hallway, Mike leans up against him, brushes his mouth across Jeff’s. “Mike – ” Jeff’s voice is unsteady. “You’re drunk.” 

“You’ve fucked me plenty times drunk.” The skin of Jeff’s neck is warm under his fingers. His lips are dry, and still under Mike’s mouth. He doesn’t kiss back. Mike drags his teeth across Jeff’s jaw, and he can hear Jeff breathing, feel the way his throat is working. 

Jeff’s eyes are closed. “Don’t mess with me like this.” 

Mike nudges his head to the side, mouths along Jeff’s throat. “Don’t you still want me?” 

Jeff’s breath goes out all at once. He looks down at Mike. “Of course I still want you. I always want you. You _left._ ” 

Mike can feel Jeff’s pulse with his tongue, taste the salt on his skin. “You shouldn’t have let me.” 

Jeff’s arms come up around him then, thumbs stroking little circles into the small of his back. His face is too close to focus on, nose bumping against Mike’s. “What did you want me to do? Fly up to Kenora and drag you back?” 

“Maybe.” It might be true. But if Jeff will just making his fucking move then it won’t be Mike’s fault and he can give up this weight, this lead in his chest – 

Jeff’s mouth is on him then, teeth pulling at his lip, panting against it. One hand up splayed along Mike’s jaw, the other pulling him close. Mike’s throat is so tight he can barely swallow; he can barely breathe. Jeff’s mouth looks bruised already, slick and shiny, and Jeff’s hands are untucking his shirt, nails raking down Mike’s sides. Jeff’s skin is superheated under Mike’s hands, all hard muscle, bulkier than the last time Mike touched him. Jeff groans low against Mike’s mouth. 

Then Jeff slides down to his knees, face pressing against the outline of Mike’s cock, while Mike fumbles with his belt. Jeff’s breath is hot, already mouthing along the damp fabric before Mike can get his boxers open. 

He keeps his hand in Jeff’s hair. “Yeah. Come on.” Keeps his voice soft. 

Almost like Jeff was the one being comforted. 

 

 

He wakes up to Jeff stroking his face – careful, light touches. Jeff is sitting on the edge of the bed, and he smiles when Mike opens his eyes. “You don’t have to be up for another hour.” 

Mike blinks up at him, yawns. 

Jeff grins more broadly, pushes the hair back away from Mike’s temple. “But I have to go back to my place. Get some things before practice.” He kisses Mike’s forehead. “I put coffee on for you. It’ll be ready when you get up.”  
  
Mike reaches up, sleepy and uncoordinated to touch Jeff’s face. Jeff catches his hand, kisses it, and then his face again. “I’ll see you soon, okay?” 

When Mike does go downstairs, he tidies up – gathers up the clothes left discarded on the floor, straightens the picture knocked askew, retrieves his keys from where they were abandoned in the front hallway. He sets them on the counter while he pours himself coffee. Stares at them absently while he’s drinking. 

It’s not until he’s on his second cup that he notices his spare is gone. 

 

 

He’s uneasy, still distracted when he reports to the locker room. Mike strips off his shirt – and it’s Penner who notices first, cutting off what he’s saying midsentence, staring at Mike. But Penner is unpredictable at the best of times and the easiest way to deal with him is often to ignore him. Mike spares him a glance, but keeps going, shuffling his pants down in front of his locker, but when he looks up again, it’s Penner andStoll staring at him. “Jesus fucking Christ,” Penner says, eyes never leaving Mike. 

Mike glances down. The bruising is spectacular. Enough so that Mike actually turns his arm over, marveling at his own skin. Jeff hadn’t been particularly rough, but here it is, echoes from last night all over him. Browns and greens. Purple and yellow. Dozens of fingerprint sized dark spots across his chest. Darker marks around his hips. Mike can feel himself blushing, heat rising in his cheeks. 

Penner says, “Jesus Christ, I hope you got her number.” 

Mike blinks and looks up sharply. Right. Penner hadn’t been out with them last night. 

Stoll doesn’t say anything at all. 

 

 

After practice, one of the trainers calls him over. “Hey, so. Ricky.” 

Mike waits for him to go on, but for a second there’s nothing. Just the trainer spinning a roll of tape over his fingers. Catching it. Stopping it. Spinning again. 

“So, your doctor put you on a blood-thinner after your surgery, right?” 

Mike frowns, focusing on the white tape instead of his face. “Yeah. He said it was fine. He said I’m not going to piss hot or anything – ” 

“No, no it’s nothing like that.” His fingers clamp down around the tape, arresting its motion. “It’s just – it can cause you to bruise more easily, that’s all.” The trainer is looking down, looking away. 

“Yeah,” Mike says. “Yeah. I got it.” The trainer’s tone needles him, the uncertain note in his voice, the way his eyes stayed fixed off Mike, maybe – 

Maybe it’s not just Stoll, then. Or even just Stoll and Penner’s half knowledge. Last season was a careening boulder, with no time to stop or think, no time for anyone to notice, or to think anything at all other than _keep winning_. But they don’t have that leeway now, and the whole fucking room is going to know, and this thingthey have – it’s going to bring everything crashing down around their ears. 

  
Again. 

His stomach turns. Mike goes home on autopilot. Two hands on the wheel. A desperate, heady focus. Careful, deliberate breaths. Not thinking, just moving. From the car to the door, from the door straight upstairs to the bathroom. There’s a simple fix for this. It’s all very simple – and then he’s flipping the cap off the first pill bottle, dumping the contents into the toilet. 

Then the second. It’s at the third that he catches himself in the mirror and freezes. His face is white. The pill bottle is angled in his hand, contents teetering on the lip. 

Gravity takes effect, the pills drop, and Mike follows them down. Sitting all at once next to the toilet, back to the tub – 

What the fuck is he _doing?_

He swipes once at the pills floating on the water’s surface, a gesture abandoned for its futility before it’s even half-completed. 

He didn’t even make it a month before giving in. There’s a hot, tight spiral of panic worming its way up his chest. Mike stands up. Washes his hands. Cranks the hot water until it scalds. 

He’s still washing them when he hears the front door open. 

 

* * *

 

_2007-2010_

It wasn’t – they didn’t – it didn’t start out the way it got in the end. 

Jeff was so careful, so hesitant over him it almost ruined it. “Just tell me,” he said. “You know. If…” 

Mike didn’t know. Mike didn’t know anything then. 

Jeff’s fingertips skated down his arm, circled Mike’s wrist, and then pressed. And then pressed a little harder. 

Mike could see Jeff’s throat working when he held Mike’s arm up, against the headboard. His palm was warm where it was pressed against Mike’s, their fingers intertwined. 

And Mike couldn’t quite catch his breath. 

 

 

Jeff liked shifting his weight over Mike. Holding him in place. “Don’t move,” he said. But it wasn’t what he meant. He liked it when Mike thrashed and pulled away. Liked any excuse to grip Mike harder – it was all right there on Jeff’s face for Mike to see. There in how bright his eyes got, hyperfocused and intent, lips parted, and how his hips pressed and stuttered against Mike. 

Mike liked that he never let go. 

 

 

It followed them into the locker room. Jeff’s hand on his hip as he slipped past Mike in the room, his touch lingering. Jeff’s gaze on him heavy and hooded in a way that left Mike’s mouth dry, arousal like a heat, like a weight in his core. 

“Richie.” 

Mike glanced up. Coach Stevens was frowning at him. “A little focus, please?” He had a dry erase marker still in his hand. He shook his head, and the rest of the room slowly shifted their attention from Mike back to the game plan Stevens was drawing up. Jeff looked at him a second longer than the rest, a sleepy satisfaction in his gaze. The tiniest hint of a smile around his mouth. 

Mike put up three points that game, and on the way off the ice Jeff had slung his arm around Mike’s shoulders, looking so pleased and proud. He ducked his head and pressed himself against Mike’s side. But when Mike looked over at him, Jeff was gazing up – around the arena, at the stands and the banners high in the rafters. “All this is going to be yours,” Jeff said, and then he leaned in closer, that small, private grin on his face. “And you’re going to be mine.” 

 

 

The next year, they handed Mike the ‘C’. 

Standing in Holmgren’s office, Mike tried not to think about how the last captain had bailed as fast and far as he could after just one year. Coach Stevens and one of the VPs were with them, the combined weight of their eyes heavy on him. Holmgren said, “We believe in you.” And, “We need someone to step up for this team.” And, “You’ll have our full support.” 

Coach Stevens had looked down at that point, gaze edging away to some far corner of the carpet. But Holmgren and the other suit were still watching him. Faces open and blandly encouraging. Back then, Mike hadn’t understood that that was how you got to be the one wearing the suit – the ability to smile, and look someone in the eye, and lie. 

“We need you to do this, son,” Holmgren said. 

Mike was 23. 

 

 

It was a weight more than an honor. It came laden with expectations. Mike carried them around in his head like they were physical burdens he could pick up and sort out, instead of skins he was supposed to wear, all heavy on his shoulders, all blurry and bleeding into each other. An example. A leader. Skate. Fight. Score. Stand up for his team when they’re challenged. Answer for his team when they fall short. 

Up against Pittsburgh for last time that year, he fell short. An ugly turnover, a lost fight, and a lopsided score that left Sidney Crosby grinning while he skated away and orange-clad fans shuffling silently for the exits. In the locker room, Mike rubbed a hand across his face, squeezed the bridge of his nose, and his head did hurt, but mostly it was an excuse to shut his eyes, to delay the inevitable, just for a moment. 

They were still in the private part of the dressing room, and Jeff sat down next to him, close to him. Put a hand on his back. 

“I don’t want to go out there,” Mike said, and turned his face into Jeff’s shoulder. “God. I really, really don’t.” 

“Mike.” Jeff’s voice was rough, like Mike’s anxiety was bleeding into him. He slipped his arm around Mike’s shoulders. “You don’t have to.” 

Mike tried to laugh; it came out choked and thick, muffled against Jeff’s chest. 

“You don’t.” Jeff’s voice took on a sharp edge. “Just because you’re the captain doesn’t mean you have to talk to them every single night for as long as they want.” Jeff’s fingers flexed in Mike’s shirt, restless. “You don’t,” he repeated. He slipped off the bench to kneel in front of Mike. Two hands on his face, suddenly intent. “Whatever you do is going to be fine. You’re fine.” 

That night Mike blew off the media after one question. And maybe he should have noticed, when he did look up to meet their eyes, that their faces had a smug twist to them. Like they already knew this story, like they could all see how it was going to play out. 

Mike hadn’t. 

 

* * *

 

_2013_

“Hey.” Jeff is in his kitchen when Mike comes downstairs, digging in the fridge for something. He peers around the door at Mike. “Do you have any Gatorade? If I go to the store, do you want me to get some?” 

Jeff’s face is tan. He looks relaxed. Loose-limbed and sprawling through Mike’s space. All his features seem suddenly distinct, like Mike’s seeing him for the first time. The line of his jaw, the dark ring around his iris. 

Blonde and blue-eyed, Mike thinks. Maybe it’s no surprise he ended up in California. Jeff knows him better than anyone else alive. Knows all his secrets, and loves him anyway. Mike’s welling up with warmth, but it’s a diffuse, vague sort of feeling, all shot through with sadness. With regret. 

Jeff’s still looking at him, a dawning concern in his eyes. “What’s up?” 

Mike hands are still tingling with faded heat, pruned from being in the water. He swallows. “We have to stop,” he says. “We can’t do this. We have to stop.” 

Jeff’s head tips; his mouth turns down. “Mike.” He walks over and puts his hands on Mike’s shoulders, rubbing quickly, as if this statement is something he could warm Mike out of. “It’s going to – ” 

Mike feels himself leaning in for a second, before he’s struck with lurching, disquieting sense of déjà vu. Jeff’s looking at him like he’s being _silly_. An errant child. Mike shakes his head. “No. It’s not going to be fine.” He shoves Jeff’s hands off him. 

Jeff blinks for a second, sighs. “Come on now,” Jeff coaxes and reaches for him again. 

Mike moves, fast and clean, and suddenly his knuckles are stinging, and Jeff is wincing, holding a hand up to his face. Jeff rubs his jaw and then pulls his hand away, checking for blood. His tongue prods at his lip. He looks up at Mike. “What the _fuck_?” 

Mike’s mouth works. He searches for words. “We can’t – ” 

“No.” Jeff cuts him off, face going dark. “No. First you fuck me all last season and then ignore me all summer. Then you say you dowant to be together. And the _next day_ you don’t?” 

“It’s going to be bad. It’s going to be like it was.” His voice is edging on desperate, but Mike doesn’t have any shot at all if he can’t get that through to Jeff. 

“We won the fucking _Cup.”_ Jeff’s shouting now. “We’re on a good team. Everything’s fine. Why can’t you see that?” 

Mike shrinks back, shaking his head. 

Jeff’s watching him with narrowed eyes, expression gone calculating. “I’m tired of you _testing_ me. Is that what this is? More of you seeing how far you can push – ” 

“No – ” But Mike can’t get anything else out, and Jeff’s just looking at him, furious and terrifyingly still. 

Jeff’s is so close Mike can see his pupils constrict, the flush in his cheeks. Can feel the heat radiating off him. When Mike bites his lip, Jeff’s eyes go to his mouth. Jeff’s lips are a little bit parted, he’s breathing too fast, and Mike cannot look away. 

Jeff grabs his shirt – Mike spins away from him, heart hammering, and he’s got enough momentum that he can hear the fabric tear, and he can feel Jeff’s fingers scrape down his skin seeking purchase. 

Mike makes it into the living room before Jeff catches him. He hits the ground hard, caught from behind – hard enough to knock the wind out of him. And then Jeff is over him, weight pinning him into the floor, Mike’s good arm trapped beneath him. Mike tries to leverage himself up, but his hand slips and skids across the floorboards – 

His arm’s not cooperating. 

It hits him that he couldn’t get Jeff off him, whether he wanted to or not – he’s not strong enough – 

The adrenaline kicks into a higher gear, sending up a cold spray of panic. “Don’t.” He kicks out wildly, catches Jeff in the stomach with a knee and sends him sprawling into the coffee table. The table hits the wall, and there’s the impossibly loud sound of glass shattering as the flat screen hits the ground. 

Mike’s crawling, nails gouging into the wood – but then Jeff’s back on him, pinning him flat again. Mike’s head bounces off the wood floor, and he tastes blood. Jeff takes ahold of Mike’s sweatpants – tugging them down, he’s got them halfway off, halfway down Mike’s legs – “Stop! Jeff, stop. _Stop it_ – ” 

Somewhere the dog is going nuts, and there’s a second crash – this one more distant – Mike’s heart is racing so hard it barely registers – except for then someone else is in the room, announcing in a loud voice, “ _Police_.” 

 

 

The officer is utterly expressionless. He holds a notepad in his hand, taking Mike’s statement. Mostly silent, just the scratch of a pencil following Mike’s words. 

The pencil pauses a long time while Mike gathers himself. There’s a cut on the inside of his mouth that he keeps tonguing. Through the open door he can see Jeff sitting in the back of a cruiser. He imagines a world where one version of the truth spills out of his mouth, imagines how the car door would shut after Jeff. Maybe there’d be red and blue lights, a commotion followed by a vacuum. By stillness. 

Or the opposite, different words but also true, and Jeff would get out of the car, would stand and stretch. Quiet now followed by an explosive later. 

Mike feels sick. 

He clears his throat; he says, “This was all just a misunderstanding. It was – consensual.” The words stick. “This is just – something we do.” 

The officer looks up at him then, an eyebrow lifted. It’s unclear if he recognizes Mike, even more uncertain that he would care if he did. In the hanging pause, Mike can feel color creeping up his neck and across his cheeks in a slow burn. The officer’s eyes are gray. His gaze is steady. He taps his pencil against the page, eyes never off Mike’s face. Mike swallows and looks away. 

Finally, “You should be more considerate of your neighbors.” It’s delivered curtly. He hands Mike a slip of paper, and then he’s walking back outside. After a moment of discussion, his partner lets Jeff out of the police car. 

Jeff touches his shoulders first, after the police have gone, after the broken door has been wedged shut, the pieces of the coffee table pushed out of the way. He touches Mike’s face next, a ghost of a caress, almost too light to register. “You okay?” 

Mike shrugs. 

Jeff pushes Mike’s hair away from his face, draws him near enough for Mike to feel the warmth of his body, and he leans into it – so much of him leans into it – 

“I’m going to go,” Jeff says quietly. He kisses Mike’s temple. “We should both get some rest.” 

When he steps away, Mike has to press his lips together tight, lock his hands together in front of him. The house is very quiet when he’s gone. 

 

* * *

 

_2010-2011_

Losing in the Final made for a short, bitter summer. And when they came back, it wasn’t any easier. But Jeff kept saying, “You’re fine.” Night after night, no matter how bad it got. Even after Mike started waking up in the middle of night because there was too much worrying to fit into his waking hours, after Mike started walking the dog long past midnight, under the street lamps, until he whined and snapped, and pulled towards home. Jeff would put his hands on Mike when he said it. If they were standing, stoop down so he was eye level. If they were sitting, lean in and cup Mike’s chin. The drag of his hands across Mike’s skin always promised more, that later Jeff would pin him in place, take what he wanted, until Mike didn’t have to think at all. 

_You’re fine._

__

_Everything’s fine._

__

_You’re doing a good job._

Blue eyes boring into his. It was easy to believe him. It was easy to slip into a pattern of blowing things off, of bolting, when everything inside these walls made his chest seize up, his heart pound, and at home – at home Jeff would be waiting, ready to soothe. Ready to make Mike forget. 

Late in the season, Philadelphia was curling towards spring, and the locker room felt muggy, reeked more than usual of sweat and rot. Mike closed his eyes, pushed back at the feeling of nausea. His stomach was still too sour to let him really focus on what Coach was saying about the loss. Just the gist of it filtered in – that they were slipping, in and out of eighth place. Coach’s words fomented the edginess in the room, until the whole atmosphere crackled and threatened like heat lightning in August. 

After Laviolette left, door slamming after him, Mike kept his eyes on the ground. And when he could, he stood up and headed for the door. 

“You blowing the media off again?” Chris Pronger, voice booming and sharp. “You blowing _us_ off again?” The room was already quiet, but then even the shuffling, innocuous sounds of guys ripping and crumpling, stripping and dressing, had stopped, given way to silence. 

Mike froze. Turned around. 

“You blow off the coach.” Pronger scowled. “You blow off the media. You blow off your responsibilities. Where you going tonight, Richards? You off to get drunk?” 

He was half right, anyway. Mike sneered back, caught out. “What the fuck?” A desperate sort of bluster in his voice. “Fuck you.” 

Pronger stepped up to him – tall enough and close enough that Mike had to crane his neck. “You’re a fucking embarrassment.” 

Mike could feel the hair rise on the back of his neck, hands starting to twitch and ball. 

“Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you’re not slinking out of here right now.” Pronger paused. “Tell me Carter’s not two seconds behind you.” 

Mike’s throat tightened. “What the fuck are you implying?”  
  
“Fucking,” Pronger said, slow and cold, “is exactly what I’m implying.” 

“Prongs – ” Jeff broke in, from somewhere behind them. “Don’t be an ass. You’re being ridiculous – ” 

“No – ” There was another voice, someone Mike couldn’t see. “No, I think he’s right.” 

Something rippled through the room, a subtle reshuffling. “This is my team,” Mike said. Because he was supposed to. Because he had to. “I’m the captain.” 

Pronger shook his head. “Then fucking act like it.” 

 

 

Jeff said, “Pronger’s just being a jackass. Pronger’s just stirring up shit.” 

But Pronger went down (went down with a sudden crack like a redwood felled, went down screaming and bleeding on ice), and the fractures were still there. Half the locker room still restless and malcontent. Now leaderless, they eyed Mike with unconcealed contempt, like Pronger’s disappearance was his fault. As though he had wished it into being. 

Hartnell pulled him aside with a friendly hand on his shoulder – “Richie, we got to talk” – and took him out to a bar a couple neighborhoods away. He made the whole drive there in silence, but once seated, he shrugged and peeled at the label on his beer, and said, “The room is – it can’t go on like this.” 

Mike stared into his beer, filled with the sudden, desperate wish that this was his problem. That all his problems could be traced back to one, solid concrete thing, one thing that could be excised and banished. A failure of what he does rather than what he is. “I don’t know what to do,” he admitted. 

“Well, you have to do _something._ ” 

Irritation rose up in Mike, sharp and quick. “Well I don’t hear any helpful suggestions coming from you. I haven’t heard you offering to help.” 

There was a pause. Mike glanced over, and Hartnell was looking back at him, brow furrowed. “Carter said not to call you. He said you were stressed, that you wanted to be left alone.” 

Mike swallowed, took a long pull of beer. “He said that?” 

“Yeah.” Hartnell was looking more uncertain. He sat back in his chair, frowning. “He also told the rookies not to talk to you – not to bother you.” 

Mike shook his head. “He’s – ” He tried to keep the confusion out of his voice. Tried to make it sound like he wasn’t trying to convince himself of something. “He’s just trying to help.” 

At that, Hartnell had just shrugged. 

 

 

He was pissed by the time he made it Jeff’s place, a slow but steady rise of anger. 

Jeff answered the door with a smile, stepping aside for him to enter. “There you are – ” 

“Did you tell the rookies not to talk to me?” Right there in the hall, almost before Jeff had a chance to shut the door. 

Jeff blinked. “Mike – ” 

“Did you?” 

Jeff’s face shuttered. “You’ve been so stressed, Mike. I just didn’t want them bothering you with stupid shit.” 

When Jeff took a step toward him, Mike put a hand out and took a step back. “Did you tell Hartnell not to talk to me?” 

Jeff’s eyes locked on his. Every line on his face was familiar. Every fleck in his iris. Mike waited a beat, and then another. “No,” Jeff said finally. “No, of course not.” He reached out then, and pulled Mike against his chest. 

Mike sank into it, the bulk of him blocking Mike’s view. A muffling sort of warmth. 

“Hey, there.” Jeff wrapped his arms around him. “Easy.” He held on while Mike got his breathing under control. The tips of Jeff’s fingers worked through his hair, trailed down the nape of his neck. “Do you want… ” 

There was a nagging sensation in Mike’s head that he should be better than this. Sharper than this. A suspicion that he should step away, should say, _we need to stop_. 

What he wanted to say was, _don’t let me decide. Don’t make me pick._

__

Mike didn’t say anything at all. Instead, he held himself perfectly still. He could feel Jeff’s grip flexing carefully in the fabric of his sleeve. __

All at once, Jeff’s grip on him had tightened – one hand on his sleeve and one buried in his hair, and Jeff was yanking him away from the counter, shoving him down the hall. The pain was bright and sudden – as good as smelling salts. 

__

But then they hit the bed and Jeff came down hard on top of him. The sheets still twisted and unmade from that morning and Mike grabbed at them, trying to pull himself out from underneath. Jeff’s hands were already pushing his shirt up, sliding up his back. And Mike _knew_ then that he shouldn’t, that he _couldn’t –_

Mike bucked under his weight, something metallic in the back of his throat. “Stop.” 

Jeff froze over him, fingertips like individual points of heat. 

And Mike was so close, so close to getting out of it, to not having to pick at all. “No. _Fuck_. Don’t listen to me. Don’t listen – ” 

Jeff groaned and flung himself into motion. He shoved Mike’s face back against the mattress. Something on the bedside table went tumbling, and Jeff was looping something around Mike’s wrist, pulled it taut until Mike’s hand was trapped up by the headboard, his shoulder strained and burned, heart pounding a mile a minute. 

Jeff’s voice was down by his ear, breathless. “Is this – do you like this?” 

“Make me like it.” Mike shut his eyes. 

 

 

By the end, Jeff was the only one who would look at him, and Jeff was the only one he saw. That was the problem, and by then it was all so very clear. Except, by then of course, it was already too late. And even Holmgren, who once seemed to think he could mold Mike into what he wanted with the weight of his stare alone, sent the news by phone. 

There was a long pause after Holmgren stopped speaking. Dead air. “Richie?” 

“Thank you,” he choked out, in a voice filled with guilt and hate, and shimmering relief. 

 

* * *

 

_2013_

He thinks they’ve gotten away with it. 

  
Right up until the moment John Stevens pulls him aside. 

“Hey, Richie,” he says, and gestures towards his office. “A word?” The door shuts behind them with a firm, ominous thump. John frowns down at his hands for a moment before looking over at Mike. “I got a call from Helene Elliott today. At the _Times_?” 

Mike goes cold, hair on the back of his neck starting to rise. 

“It was a… friendly heads up.” John gestures, hand turning in the air as though he has mixed feelings about his own descriptor. “She has a police blotter report of a noise complaint and a – a domestic violence call at your address.” 

In the silence, Mike can hear them both breathing. 

“Richie, I need to know if – ” 

“It was just a misunderstanding.” Mike can feel sweat beading on his skin. 

John nods slowly. “Okay. Good. Who were you there with?” 

Mike hesitates. “Nobody.” 

“You were home by yourself?” Mike doesn’t need to see John’s face – everything’s right there in his skeptical tone. “You were home alone and the police came on a domestic violence call and ticketed you for a noise violation?” 

Mike shrugs. His shoulders are so tight the motion comes out abbreviated. Stiff. 

“Richie. Mike. Listen to me. I am on your side, but you have to tell me the truth. If I find out you’re lying, you’ll be off this team. You understand that, right?” John waits another beat. “Who were you there with?” 

Mike tries to swallow, his throat’s gone dry. “Jeff.” He keeps his eyes fixed on a single point on the wall, just above John’s head. “We had a fight. Things got out of hand.” 

John’s gaze is steady. 

“You know,” Mike says. It comes out as a sharp little whisper. John was there. In Philly. He knows what happened. 

“I know you got shipped out of Philly because you couldn’t see past each other.” John’s voice is harsh _._ “What are you _doing_?” 

Mike flushes, abruptly angry. “Oh, I see. It’s all ‘ _You Can Play’_ up until it’s your team, is that it?” 

“I do not give a damn if you fuck _men_ ,” John hisses. Mike’s never seen him this angry, fist bouncing off the desk surface. “Fuck all the guys you want, but you cannot fuck Jeff Carter. You are throwing away your career. If you get kicked off another team for this you’re not going to be able to get fourth line minutes in a beer league in Saskatchewan.” 

John sighs, expression settling into something more pleading. “I’m trying to be your friend. Please. Please do not do this.” 

 

 

Jeff watches him at practice. His gaze a little worried. He trails a hand over Mike, a touch that Mike presses back into, automatic and instinctive. 

 

 

Mike goes to see Dean Lombardi the next day. 

Dean goes from half-distracted and smiling to utterly focused on Mike all in a second. A single sentence and Dean is leaning forward, serious expression locked in place. “I – I have to say I didn’t see this coming. Mike, if you’re unhappy with the system here – is there something we can change? Something we could work on together?” 

“It’s not – it’s nothing to do with the team,” Mike says. “It’s off ice stuff. I just – I need fresh start somewhere.” 

Dean props his face in his hand, clearly still searching for words. Face genuinely concerned in a way that makes Mike look away. 

“I don’t want to fuck over the team. I know my contract’s not the easiest to move. But.” This is harder than he thought it would be. Hard to get the words out. “I’ll go anywhere.” 

Dean shakes his head. “It’s not going to happen overnight, but, if you’re certain – ” He waits for Mike to nod. “I’ll look into it.” 

 

 

Jeff is already home when he gets there. There are cardboard boxes and packing material strewn about the living room. A new TV already up on the wall, and Jeff’s midway through assembling an IKEA coffee table. He stops when Mike walks in. 

“I wasn’t sure what you wanted,” Jeff says quietly, nodding at the table in his hands. “So I got this because it looked like the old one.” 

His voice is so, so quiet. So careful. And Mike can’t speak, because to speak would be gashing open his own chest. His eyes are starting to string, the room going watercolor blurry. 

Jeff sets down the screwdriver. “Hey.” And then he’s walking over, putting his arms around Mike, pulling him close. “I’m sorry.” He sounds choked up too, and his hand rubs Mike’s back. 

Mike gets his arms around him. Jeff is warm and Mike can press his cheek to Jeff’s chest, feel his heartbeat, quiet and steady. It’s such an easy fit, and everything, even the way he smells, the way his hand rests on the back of Mike’s neck, all seem momentous. 

He is never going to love anyone as much as he loves Jeff Carter, right now, in this moment. “I requested a trade.” 

Jeff pulls back, is looking down at him, blinking like he didn’t understand. “What?” 

Mike’s voice is gritty, rough. “I asked Dean to trade me.” 

Jeff’s mouth moves like he’s trying to form words that aren’t there. “Why? Why – we just _finally_ got – ” 

“Because we can’t do this.” Mike’s losing the battle to keep his throat from closing. “I mess everything up, and I can’t.” He presses his face back into Jeff’s shirt. 

Jeff’s chest is unsteady, a quick tempo rise and fall. “I don’t understand.” 

“I can’t. If I’m here and you’re here, I can’t – ” 

“I don’t understand. Do you – ” Jeff’s voice is so hesitant, so unsure. He’s looking down at Mike’s fingers, curled in the fabric of his shirt. “Do you want me to make you stay? Is that it?” 

Mike looks down, at his own hands – gripping tight, at the way he’s pressed himself into Jeff. Fabric of Jeff’s shirt suddenly rough under his cheek. Mike blinks up at him. Takes a step back. 

Jeff’s face fades from confused to pissed. “Jesus fucking Christ, you are fucked up. You want me to _make you_ stay.” Jeff’s looking at him with a chilly focus. He takes a step forward. Mike shies away, but Jeff shadows his movements, until Mike’s back hits the wall. “Because I will,” Jeff adds. It’s said very quietly, right in Mike’s ear. 

He’s so close that Jeff’s breathing is a loud rasp in his ear. He can feel his chest rising and falling. If Mike pulls back a little, he can see the way Jeff’s lips are parted and shiny. 

Mike’s fucking falling apart and Jeff’s pleased. Jeff’s _happy._

Mike’s stomach drops, and if Jeff touches him, he’s never going to leave. 

Mike spins. And runs. 

He locks himself in the bedroom. Mike can hear Jeff behind him. Just as he flips the lock, Jeff thumps up against the door. Mike falls back a step, staring. 

“Mike!” The door shakes. 

“I have to do this,” Mike screams back at him. “I have to go. This shit we have is fucked up. And you – you let it be fucked it. You like it!” 

There’s another thump, and then the sound of Jeff sliding down the door. Sliding to the floor. “Don’t _say_ that.” He sounds broken. “Don’t put all this on me – I can’t take that.” 

Mike’s reflection in the mirror is bloodless, wild. 

There’s a stuttered sigh from the other side of the door. “How am I supposed to know? How am I supposed to know when 90% of the time when you say _stop_ , you mean _harder_? Mike, I never want to hurt you, not in any way you don’t like. I love you.” A pause. “Please open the door.” 

And in the crack underneath, Mike can see the tips of Jeff’s fingers, reaching out. Jeff clears his throat, new commitment in his voice. “If you go, I’ll follow you. I’ll get traded, too. I don’t care where. You want to go to Winnipeg, I’ll follow you to Winnipeg. You go to Florida, I’ll go to fucking Florida. I’ll make it happen. You know I can. I did it before.” 

Mike stares at Jeff’s fingers, long and slim, and reaching for him. Jeff did get traded. And he would do it again. And Mike was an idiot if he thought going to another team would change anything. 

“ _Please_ , Mike.” 

Mike opens the door. 

 

 

Out on the ice, Mike looks up at the Staples Center rafters, at the banners and the jerseys. The noise is fading, and this is it. This is where he’s going to play hockey. This is his life. 

Jeff skates up to him, wraps his arms around Mike’s shoulders from behind in a way that would just look like horseplay to anybody else. But they’re tight around him. 

“All this is going to be yours Mike.” Jeff’s smiles, leans so his mouth is close to Mike’s ear. “And you’re mine.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Whew. Well. I'm glad that's done. I hope you got something out of it. I guess we're all just working our shit out on the page. Or maybe that's just what happens when you spend 130K writing a universe in which everything is fucked up except their relationship? 
> 
> Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll just be over here working on something in which Jon Quick is magic. Possibly with rainbows. Or unicorns.


End file.
